The young woman Vantaiga sat alone in the lush green oasis of her lord’s garden by a weeping willow tree. It was a spot she visited to find some peace when the time was permitted. She did not have any say in her time or the tasks she had to do, but she did manage to claim some dominion over the garden. It was here that she could find a moment’s rest from her master’s demands.

  She looked up into the long, drooping leaves of the elegant tree and remarked at how much it had grown. How much she had grown. Thoughts of her younger days drifted through her head. They were the pleasant thoughts of nurturing the garden and plants of the household. In the days of the long drought, the garden was sparse and brown, the willow tree fragile and listless.

  She leaned her head back on the tree and closed her eyes to lose herself in the few enjoyable memories she had of her youth. Any spare moment she found, she would spend tending to the plants. She would yank out the weeds that constantly berated and battered the struggling flowers. She would trim and brace the bushes so they could show off their beauty. She would even sneak out extra rations of water to ease the willow tree’s thirst and desire to grow above the walls, so its leaves could flow freely.

  She had to be careful though; the Master of Servants paid close attention to her when he was around. She didn’t like the extra scrutiny from him. His eyes were hard and judgemental. She always felt she was doing something wrong when he looked at her. She wondered if she hadn’t defied him so strongly in the beginning that he would care less about her now. She cast away the memory. She did not want to waste her brief respite with thoughts of that evil man.

  She opened her eyes to look about and enjoy a small sense of pride over the garden that bloomed before her. She may be a discarded child and worthless slave, but among the bushes and flowers of the garden, she was a saviour. She had created terraces of shrubs that cut down the harsh light with layers of greens. Red, pink, and purple desert rose bushes lined the stone walkways with vines climbing the colonnades. Even humble daisies, dotted among the paths in clumps of white, found salvation at Vantaiga’s hand.

  She crossed over to the garden wall to inspect a newly planted purple trumpet vine. A rare smile crossed her lips at the exotic plant. In her younger days, while she still had an adolescent’s imagination, she would pretend the plants were thankful and welcomed her attention.

  Much of her youthfulness had been taken from her over the years, but she still imagined the plants were grateful of her carez. And she, in turn, was grateful for their appreciation, even if it was just imagined. The imagined affection of the plants was certainly a greater kindness than anything she experienced in her real life as a slave.

  Dark thoughts intruded on the young woman’s reminiscing. They were the thoughts of long days spent cleaning, mending, and tending to the lord’s children. They were thoughts of restless nights recounting the day’s abuses and berating. They were thoughts of her shame, fear, and abandonment.

  There were also thoughts of her fellow slaves, the closest thing she had to friends in her harsh world. There were times when a slave would leave to begin their work in the morning and never be seen again. Sadness gripped her chest, and a tear escaped her eye.

  She didn’t want the dark thoughts. She didn’t want to remember the pain or the faces that didn’t return. She cursed herself and wiped away the tear. She prevented the thoughts from overtaking her by forcing them away with memories of the garden. But the memories of the garden were very few, and the memories of her mistreatment were very many.

  A call for her came through the air and rescued her from her remorse. She quickly donned the numb composure of a slave. The thoughts of her servitude vanished along with her thoughts of the plants as a new task beckoned. As she left her brief sanctuary, she did allow herself a final moment of feeling to give the willow tree a smile and pat as she passed.

  ***

  Vantaiga awoke to darkness and black-shadowed shapes haphazardly jerking to the rhythm of a pounding pulse in her head. She didn’t understand the shadows. She didn’t understand the pounding and ringing in her head. She didn’t understand the crippling fear that ran through her body.

  She tried raising herself up, but an incredible ache in her side pushed her back down. She didn’t understand why she couldn’t get up. She tried raising her hands to her face. One hand responded, but the other didn’t. Shooting pains along her arm and shoulder made it impossible to lift, and she didn’t understand why.

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  She tried checking her shoulder, but the spinning of her head made it awkward. Her hand fumbled against her side, welling up a surge of pain with each clumsy bump. She dropped her hand to her chest; it thumped down, erupting yet another burst of pain. With a confused whimper, she slid her hand to the ground and lay still and flat among the dark objects that revolved and jerked above her.

  She tried to focus on the objects, but they swayed and blurred, refusing to make themselves recognizable. A nauseous fear began to churn in her stomach and rise over her pain. She didn’t know where she was. She didn’t know where to go. She didn’t know why she hurt so much. She didn’t know why nothing made sense. Was she dying? The thought hung in her mind until another thought came to her and pushed it away:

  She slowly felt along her aching ribs and shuddered at the incredible pain a mere touch caused them. They were probably broken. She grazed her fingers along the throbbing side of her face; it emanated heat and radiated pain with every touch.

  Her lips were split, her left eye swollen shut. Further down the side of her face, her fingers came across a hardened crust along her cheek and jaw. She followed the crust up to a tangled, wet mess in her hair. The touch made a dull throb pulse through her head. She winced in pain and fear as she pulled back to look at her hand. In the dim light, she could see it was covered with blood.

  Horror-stricken, she began to pant. The action inflamed her ribs even more, and sparkles danced across her eyes. Why was her head bleeding? Why were her ribs broken? Why couldn’t she move? Why did she have to have so much pain in her life?

  She screamed in her head. She wanted out of this place! She wanted to get up! She wanted to know where she was! She wanted to die! But in the darkness around her, there was no answer to her questions and no reply to her silent screams.

  It didn’t matter.

  She didn’t need to know the source of her pain. She didn’t need to know where she was. She just wanted to die. Her torment and suffering would end if she could just die. Through the nauseous, pulsing pain, the thought of dying clung in her mind but was then replaced by another thought: Vantaiga ignored the new thought because she didn’t believe it. In her state of pain and turmoil, she didn’t to believe it.

  A strange new thought came to her.

  Vantaiga dismissed the thought. It made less sense to her than her pain. She tried shifting her legs to get up. More pain and throbbing, this time from her right leg. It was too stiff and sore to move. Frustration welled up inside of her. Was every part of her broken? Tears flowed from her eyes, the salt burning the swollen one. More pain! In rage, she forced herself up.

  The ringing of her ear turned to a roar as agony washed over her body. She let out a cry as the world spun uncontrollably around her, and she fell back down, shaking and sobbing. She weakly pounded the ground with her only functioning hand as she stared at the now wildly swinging images, the desire to die spinning around with them.

  Defeated, she pleaded to the gods to end her pain, confusion, and life, but they had stopped listening to her long ago. The gods didn’t care about a slave. Nobody cared about a slave. While she lay in her misery, another thought pushed through her chaotic mind:

  It was an unusual thought for her. It slowly came up from the depths of her consciousness and lazily stretched itself across her mind. Vantaiga found a sick humour in the thought. A grim chuckle managed to sneak through her sobs. It wasn’t true; nobody cared for her.

  But again, the unusual thought methodically crossed her mind, as if it was struggling to work its way through her splintered consciousness:

  Vantaiga wanted to lash out at the stray thought. It didn’t care. She was a slave. She was broken. She was dying. Why couldn’t it just let her die? With all that she had been through, she had earned the right to die. She should die.

  But the strange thought persisted: Vantaiga snapped back at her errant thought to stop. But it only followed with: Then a new thought occurred to her:

  She whimpered in resignation. There would be no end to her pain. She should be dead. She wanted to be dead. But still the thought persevered:

  Vantaiga found that thought particularly strange. What “we” could she possibly be thinking of at this time? She did not know anyone that would help her, and there was no one around her now.

  But still, the strange thought persisted:

  Vantaiga looked around as much as her sore head and neck could allow. Her thoughts were starting to scare her. She was beginning to think she was not alone after all. She managed a thin whisper through her swollen, bloodied lips. “Is anyone there?”

  She listened, but there was no sound other than the ringing from her battered ear. Again, the unusual thought pushed its way to the fore of her confusion:

  Panic and fear began to take over her. She couldn’t have people around. She wasn’t safe. She would be attacked. Tears fell from her eyes, and her voice choked as she weakly called out, “Who are you?”

  Again, there was no sound other than the ever-present ringing, but then a new thought came to her:

  Sci-fi ? Telepathy ? Psychics

  The technocracy will fall. And my powers started it all. Oops.

  I refused to die. The cost? Psychic powers, telepathy, and absurd secrets big enough to crack the technocracy.

  Across 9 galaxies, Talented awakened. Augments moved in the shadows. The truth won’t stay buried.

  

  
• Straight & queer romances. (No harem.)


  
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